


The Wonderful Game

by roxymissrose



Series: It's All In The Game [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Men of Letters Bunker, Mostly Gen, Shmoop, SpN batcave fic, mostly unrelated winchesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-25
Updated: 2014-02-25
Packaged: 2018-01-13 18:36:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1236802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roxymissrose/pseuds/roxymissrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Young Sam Winchester is learning the family business: reading things, saving people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wonderful Game

**Author's Note:**

> banner by [angstpuppy](http://angstpuppy.livejournal.com/)

Sam came wandering in from the mailbox, Dad's mail stuffed in one hand and his letter in the other. _His letter,_ sporting a return address that was an MOL postal box in New York. A little shiver tickled down Sam's spine--he bit his lip in embarrassment. It was just a letter, after all. Sam ignored the fact that he'd had almost torn the darn thing pulling it out of the mailbox, he'd been so excited. Besides, Sam had more than one reason to be so excited. He fanned himself with the letter and thought about how long it'd been since last he'd heard from his friend and how long it'd been since he had any idea where he was. Now at last, Sam had some idea of where in the country Dean was—or had been. 

Since summer last year, he'd corresponded with Dean whenever possible. Sam had a shoe box full of those letters under his bed, and he read them more times than he'd admit to anyone. He even held them to his nose from time to time, certain that the scent of Dean lingered on the cheap paper, pages stamped with the logos of distant motels, or ripped from composition books. Thinking about Dean leaning over an empty page, filling it with words just for Sam to read, made his chest squeeze tight, in a very good way. He lifted the newest letter to his face. He stroked it over his cheek and held the envelope under his nose. There it was—he sniffed hard, seeking the scent out. He grinned as the familiar scent hit him: Old Spice and gun oil—Dean. Sam sniffed and wondered briefly if maybe Dean purposefully scented those letters but chased the thought out of his head—fat chance Dean would something like _that._ Sam flushed. _He'd_ be more likely to do something like that than Dean would. Had done, in fact, and was not in the least bit embarrassed. Not one bit. 

Sam ran his thumbs over some translucent spots on the edges of the envelope that had to be little grease spots—French fries or hamburgers. Now that was something Dean was likely to do, combine any activity at all with eating. Sam grinned to himself and hoped that didn't include _all_ activities. There were some things that shouldn't be accented with grease or crumbs…maybe. 

He grinned and stuck the letter under his nose again, inhaled. "Mmmm," he sighed. And looked up into the confused eyes of his dad, standing there on the lawn in his ratty plaid robe. Just kind of…staring at him, eyebrows perched at his hairline. He had one hand extended for his own letters and his first—so far untouched—cupa joe of the day in the other hand. 

"What the hell are you doing, Son? And what the hell are you dressed as? You look like one of those singing beach bums."

Sam frowned at his dad and yanked the collar of his Pendleton straight, looked down at the shorts he was wearing. "Beach _Boys,_ Dad. Everybody dresses this way. "

"Not everybody, Ralph doesn’t dress that way and he knows how to get a haircut, too."

Sam rolled his eyes—not facing Dad as he did, of course, he was no fool—and said, "Yeah—case in point, you dress this way if you're _hip."_

Dad looked surprised and a little puzzled. "Hip? Ralph's a nice boy." His elevated eyebrows said 'what more could you want?'

"Dad! Ralph's a _dork."_

Dad snatched his mail and leveled Sam with a dark stare. "When did you get so judgmental?"

_Ever since Ralph called me a faggot,_ Sam didn’t say. 

Dad stared at him a moment or two more before sailing back to the house like a tatty plaid juggernaut and left Sam to stroll back to the porch on his own.

Sam plopped down on the porch stairs and bent his head over the letter, savoring the anticipation of opening it. His hair fell into his eyes at the same time errant strands tickled the back of his neck, haircut be damned. Sam ran his thumb along the edge of the envelope again and smiled, thinking of Dean and Dean's square, sure hands, smoothing it shut and…well, odds were he didn’t go all Sandra Dee and press a kiss to it before tossing it in a mailbox. The very idea made Sam snicker a bit. He snagged his pocket knife and slit open the envelope, slid the flimsy motel stationary out. He began to read, plunging headfirst into a world made of Dean.

_Dear Sam,  
How's it going? Has your summer gotten any more interesting? How did you like that movie, The Birds? You did go see it right? Did you see it on your own? Just wondering. We went to see a far-out movie, The Great Escape. Relax, it was just me and Mark and Gwen. *smile*_

Sam huffed. He was not jealous. He trusted Dean. He was glad he went with Mark and Gwen, though.

_We Campbells are soon to be heading back to Mole Heck, and then later on to the east coast. New Jersey, which is nothing like New York. Think of it as the Alabama of the east. We're out to put to sleep any stories about a Jersey Devil. Well, Samuel says we're knocking that story down. He says there's no such thing—Jersey Devils are as real as Big Foot and Vampires. In other words, it's pretty much a snipe hunt_

Sam hummed slightly as he read, one beat-up boat shoe rubbing slowly to and fro against the back of the opposite bare, thin ankle. He was totally unaware of his dad's eyes on him, the way he was tracking Sam's smile and the way that smile grew the more Sam read the scratchy handwriting rambling all over the lined paper. Sam grinned at that—seemed that as far as Dean was concerned, the lines were simply suggestions. Dean wrote where he wanted, how he wanted, and the margins were always full of the best little drawings. 

"Sam!"

The tone of his dad's voice broke the soft little bubble he'd been floating in. It was a tone that let Sam know his dad had been repeating his name for a bit now. "Wha—what? Sir?"

Dad waved his hand impatiently. "Let me guess—a letter from That Campbell Kid, right? Never mind, don't even tell me." Dad shook his head. "Those hunters. They're one step up from flim-flam artists, all of them—" His dad stopped and went a little grey. "I don’t mean that. I—Dean seems like a nice guy. It's just that Samuel…" Dad stopped and buried his face in his mug, using his coffee as an excuse to drop a somewhat sensitive subject. Sam exhaled softly; kind of grateful himself dad had dropped the subject of Hunters. He waited for Dad to go on but he just sucked up java and looked everywhere but at Sam. "I was thinking about making arrangements for you to go to that camp this year, Chikenik—Chichagit, whatever—so you can spend the rest of summer with your buddies—"

Sam cut in, his heart racing with horror. Trust Dad to grant him a wish he'd begged for two years ago, damn it—"But—but—don't you need me at HQ? What with the Campbell's coming in? I mean, you know, hu—hunters coming in? Bringing stuff?" Sam winced. _Great. Smooth, Winchester, sound a little more like a desperate little girl, why don'tcha._

Dad sighed. "I suppose, yes—there'll be quite a few groups coming in and out, always are in the summer months. But Sam, before you get some notion that it wouldn't be business as usual, we're cataloging the Egyptian collection this summer so it won't all be fun and games running around behind those…those Ca—hunters."

_Fun and games—_ Sam snorted—inside. He hand-waved all concerns away. Work, smurk— _Dean_ was going to be there. "I know, I don't mind working," Sam said. 

Dad gave him a strange, guarded look and turned back to the house. Sam stood on the lawn and felt his cheeks flame…Dad wasn't a fool. He was a dang Legacy-research maven. He was trained to tease out facts from seemingly unrelated things and Sam was practically flying signal flags at him. Sam watched the screen door ease shut and swallowed hard. He stretched his aching legs out across the porch steps and gazed out on the street, not really thinking for the moment, just kind of gliding along in his mind.

Their one-story ranch house sat sideways on the lot, which made it look a little different than all the other houses in the development. Sam was glad of that. The sameness of everything annoyed him, yet weirdly, sort of comforted him at the same time. The perfectly boring sameness of it probably wouldn't be even a smidge comforting if he didn't know what was out there, what his dad _really_ did for a living. Sam looked across the street. Ralph's little sister grinned at him from her hopscotch game and waved. Sam smiled and waved back. It was good to see her, happy, active, _alive_ …if Dad hadn't recognized the signs of a strigoi in the neighborhood and called in some hunters…well. 

_We did that,_ he thought with a whisper of pride, but mostly relief. _We kept them safe._ He went back inside to his room. He kicked his shoes off and curled up on his bed to finish reading. 

_but I probably shouldn't complain as it'll be a cakewalk and we'll get paid regardless of the outcome. It would be ace if your old man gave you permission ride along. Sure, it's not going to be a big deal but we'll be running around the woods at night and Samuel's not going to be paying any attention to us, if you get me! (wink-wink)_

Sam let the letter drop and gaped. Dean wanted him on a hunt. A hunt! 

A real hunt with the Campbells, who everyone said were the best of the best and no way…no way was Dad going for that. "Crap." No, no—this had to happen. Dad had to let him go, after all it was a hunt! With Dean! Who seemed to be hinting at doing more than hunting and Sam wanted to do that too, holy crap, more than _anything._

Sam went in to his dad's study with the letter and a solid determination to go on that hunt with the Campbells.

"Dad, have you ever been on a hunt?"

"No, and no, you can't go."

"But Mom—" Sam knew that was a mistake the moment his dad looked up, blazing eyes locking on his. 

"What your mom does has nothing to do with you or me. I'm calling the shots here. If she cared she'd—"

Dad cut himself off but Sam was already bleeding. He nodded at his father. "Understood. Sorry for interrupting you, sir. I'm going to—to—do the dishes or something."

He sat out on the small patio, his transistor radio in his lap and the earbud playing tinny music into his ear. His eyes were locked on the sky and he blinked. A tear squeezed out but he pretended that it didn’t.

His dad didn’t bring up Mom often. It hurt when he did. As far as anyone in town knew, his mom had died. No one knew she just didn’t care enough to stay and be a mother for him. Sam took in a deep shuddery breath. Maybe she left because she'd known that Sam would grow up to be a queer, a…a freak....

Sam scrubbed his eyes dry, and scowled at how stupid he was being. He wasn't any different or any less just because he liked men instead of women. And besides, thinking that way about his mom was plain stupid. She was a hunter, not a psychic…she was just a hunter and a lousy mom. Sam turned up the radio and closed his eyes. He let images of green eyes and the prettiest smile in the world fill his head. 

A tap on his arm brought him upright. He pulled the ear bud out and looked up into Dad's dark eyes. "Sir?"

"Listen, Sammy—Sam—it's after seven, you want to call your friend? For a little bit anyway."

Sam stared at his dad, before he got just what was happening—the old man was holding out an olive branch. Sam had the briefest moment of wanting to slap that olive branch out of his dad's metaphorical hand, for spite and for wanting Dad to feel as hurt as he'd felt, but common sense thankfully snatched Sam from the brink of stupidity and he gave his dad a smile, said, "Thanks, Dad, I appreciate that…but I don’t know where Dean is…just that he's somewhere in New York."

"Well," Dad coughed slightly and reddened. "I cleared it with Elder Howard and…Samuel Campbell. Um, here." Dad shoved a number at Sam like it was the most embarrassing thing he could possibly be holding in his hand. "This is the number to the portable field phone the hunters use to keep in touch with HQ. Normally, we don't call except for emerg—"

Whatever else Dad said drowned in a repeated shout in Sam's head— _Dean, Dean, he could talk to Dean, Dean, Dean—_

Wait a cotton-picking minute, Sam thought. Why would Dad go through so much trouble just so Sam could talk to Dean? Why'd he think it was so important?

Dad's arms were locked behind his back and his cheeks were red. "Sooo…maybe we should have a talk. Not that I'm completely qualified to have…this…particular talk..." 

"No sir, I think we really shouldn't." Sam said, his face as red and hot as Dad's. He wilted with mortification…still, Dad wanted Sam to talk, not pack….

"Remember that talk about the birds and bees and respecting girls and yourself we had last year?" Dad whipped out a pack of Pall Malls and flicked open a Zippo…he blew a long stream of gray heaven-ward and ignored Sam's pointed cough.

"Ye-ess…" Sam said slowly and waved the smoke away.

Dad's face suddenly lit up and he smiled and said, "Well, this is the same talk, only substitute boys."

Sam gulped, yelped and burst out laughing and Dad rocked back on his heels, face slack with shock at Sam's shout of laughter. Slowly shock edged into annoyance, than bemusement and then—Dad started chuckling, too. "Fool," he snorted and they were both sitting on the steps and laughing loud and long. 

Sam gasped, "But Dad, that was so smooth!"

"Yeah, well." Dad chuckled, and then his smile grew soft and fond. "You’re my son and anything you do short of robbing a bank or tripping old ladies is okay with me. You got it? And Yale's fine. Just…just don’t be a hunter, son." 

Sam bristled a bit, but looked, actually looked, at his dad and finally got it. Dad didn’t mean follow in your mother's footsteps, he meant, keep yourself safe, because I love you. "Dad…I don't know." 

Dad sighed and stared at his feet and after a while, gave a short, sharp nod. "Okay Sam. Okay. We'll just…well; we'll cross that bridge when we come to it." He stood and gripped Sam's shoulder. "I like that Dean boy," he said. 

Sam felt his heart swell, his eyes pricked and he gripped his dad's hand in turn, squeezed. "Thank you, Dad. Thank you so much."

"Eh. I love you son." Dad patted his back and walked into the house. "Come on, come call your, that, the…Campbell kid." 

2-25-2014


End file.
